Sequelae
by Lil black dog
Summary: A series of short vignettes regarding the aftermath of the Psi 2000 virus as seen through the eyes of the victims.


**A/N:** A series of short vignettes regarding the aftermath of the Psi 2000 virus as seen through the eyes of the victims. Again, no training wheels in place on this one, so I have no idea if it's any good, or if it works…

I suppose if one held this up to a magic mirror and squinted just right it could be loosely interpreted as slash…

Thanks to kes7, whose weekly free-write prompts inspired me to flesh out what I'd written for them, turning those two sketchy ideas into a full-fledged story. :D

**Sequelae**

She hadn't seen it coming at all.

She knew they were fighting something, had pitched in and done what was expected of her when crewmembers who were afflicted with the mysterious illness were brought in, but she never imagined she would fall victim to it herself.

There were no warning signs. She wasn't suicidal like Tormolin, violent like Sulu, or delusional like Riley, just suddenly flooded with a sense of peace, of well-being, of confidence. All at once, everything had fallen into place, become crystal clear, and she'd been unable to stop herself from acting on the irrational impulse.

Her heart stopped as she remembered that terrible moment, the images crowding her brain fuzzy, indistinct, moving in slow motion. She'd grabbed his hand, declared her love, forced herself on a man she knew constantly espoused the idea that he had no feelings, no love to give, disliked being touched except by a select few individuals to whom he permitted this kind of familiarity, this invasion of his personal space.

Unwittingly she'd hurt him – his whispered apology before stumbling out of Sickbay had said it all – and now all she wanted to do was to be able to take back those words, those actions, those few moments which at the time had brought her such ecstasy but would now cause unimaginable agony for them both for some time to come.

And what of Roger? She did have a fiancé, after all, a man she loved deeply. Or did she? He'd been out of contact for over five years, shortly after beginning his archaeological work on Exo III. She had signed on board the _Enterprise_ temporarily, knowing the ship was scheduled to make a stop at that distant world. She'd hoped that would give her a chance to find Roger, or at least discover his fate, but was the motivation behind this love or some twisted idea of loyalty to the man she once knew?

And what about Mr. Spock? Was she really in love with the Vulcan, or was it merely infatuation? A childish, schoolgirl fascination with his complete alienness, or something more? Just a wild fantasy that she could be the one to change him, to bring him out of his shell of non-emotion, or true love? Until now she had believed Roger was the only man for her, but at this point…she wasn't totally sure.

Looking back on it now with the clarity of reason, she was mortified by what she'd done, but could think of no way to rectify the situation. Going to him and expressing her remorse, asking for his forgiveness, was out of the question – the most private of men, he would certainly not welcome any further contact from her – and would only lead to more distress, more anguish, as they each came to terms with what had happened.

How could she have been so blind, or thoughtless?

Despite the fact that the Psi 2000 virus was ultimately responsible for her actions, she hadn't fully realized the depth of her feelings until the disease had sucked away the last of her inhibitions.

She'd never seen it coming…

oooOOOooo

God, it had been one helluva day. His reports on the incident finally complete, he switched off the terminal, pulling the tape from the slot below the screen. What he needed now was a good, stiff drink. Pouring himself a glass from the bottle he kept stashed on the shelf behind his desk he took a healthy sip of the fiery liquid, feeling a substantial burn as it hit the back of his throat.

Thankfully, they'd only lost one life – correction, _he'd_ only lost one life. The only one for which he'd been directly responsible. Scotty and Spock had more than risen to the occasion, narrowly averting a disaster that would have killed everyone on board, and yet he'd been unable to save the only crewman to receive a critical injury today. He would be playing that surgery on Tormolin over and over in his head for weeks to come. He had done everything right; it had been a textbook case, the intestinal damage not that severe, and yet the man had died anyway. What had he missed? It shouldn't have mattered that the young scientist was under the influence of the virus at the time. It wasn't like the man was suffering from a long-term, chronic illness. One couldn't will one's self to die, could one? Maybe Spock could – that tin-plated, freakishly infallible pseudo-computer could probably will himself to breathe the vacuum of space without suffering any ill effects – but surely in the hands of a skilled surgeon the patient's state of mind shouldn't have been a factor? As long as the wounds were properly repaired, the man should have survived. Once the body was healed, he would then have time to heal the mind. Sadly, that hadn't been the case for Tormolin. Perhaps that explained the reason he still kept beating himself up over the loss.

He shook his head, trying to clear away thoughts that even a fine brand of Southern bourbon hadn't succeeded in banishing completely. This would get him nowhere. He needed to focus on the living; be prepared to help those patients he could, and there were bound to be crewmen who'd have a hard time dealing with the psychological ramifications of what they'd been through today.

His thoughts shifted to his Head Nurse. Once he'd given her the antidote she'd seemed distracted, agitated, on the verge of tears if he weren't mistaken. She just hadn't been her normal, ueber-efficient self as they'd worked overtime to vaccinate the remainder of the crew against the insidious virus. Three times he'd had to ask her for something twice, startling her out of wherever it was she had gone. After several hours of intense labor things had finally returned to a semblance of normalcy, and he had used that quiet time to question her. Much to his chagrin his gentle, fatherly prodding as to the nature of what was upsetting her had gotten him nowhere, except to send her fleeing to the lab, casting some half-hearted excuse over her shoulder about an experiment she was conducting that required her immediate attention. His gut told him otherwise. Something had happened while he'd been out of Sickbay during the height of the crisis, and it had affected her deeply.

Just as his gut told him something profound had happened between the CO and XO as well. He had watched in total disbelief as the Vulcan made a beeline for Kirk upon returning to the Bridge after the cold restart of the engines. Not going to his precious instruments first, not commenting that it was 'fascinating' that they hadn't been blasted to smithereens, but immediately trotting down to the command chair. More shocking still was the momentary softening of the normally ascetic features, proper military and Vulcan decorum be damned, as he quietly (and somewhat guiltily to McCoy's mind) asked Jim if he was all right, using the Captain's given name in front of the entire bridge crew. Highly irregular. And just what did he mean by 'all right?' Mentally? Physically? Emotionally? It seemed to be more than mere professional concern for his Captain's welfare. Kirk's split lip, and the beginnings of a bruise forming along the Captain's jaw line had not escaped the Doctor's trained eye. Had they actually come to blows over something?

Kirk's answering question regarding Spock's well-being, and the slight, reassuring smile the XO flashed his Commanding Officer in return, along with the Vulcan's almost imperceptible nod of affirmation had nearly caused the CMO to have a coronary right then and there. Totally out of character for the cold-blooded bastard, especially in such a public setting. Whatever happened between them, it must have been a doozy.

It was a given that he'd never get anything out of Spock. He might as well try to have himself beamed into the heart of a supernova rather than hope to get the Vulcan to discuss anything that could be even remotely misconstrued as a feeling. Especially with him. No, he'd certainly have better luck with the Captain, but not just yet. If there was one thing he'd learned during these first few months of their mission, it was to give Jim his space in these types of situations unless the Captain specifically asked for his opinion. McCoy had already come to the realization that Kirk was more apt to discuss things with him if the Captain were allowed to do so on his own terms. Yep, give Jim some time to stew, to work things out for himself. Bring it up casually in a week or so over a few drinks and see if Jim would bite. Regardless, he'd be keeping an extra close eye on their Command Team for the next few weeks, as well as watching for signs among the crew that people weren't able to adequately deal with the ramifications of what had happened today.

Damn. What had ever possessed him to join Starfleet anyway? He was no military man. How could he have ever believed that this could even remotely be a good idea? Maybe if he hadn't taken the coward's way out, fled as far as possible from his ex-wife and the pain of their messy divorce, he wouldn't be in this predicament. He liked Jim well enough, and was able to easily relate to the other members of the senior staff, but that damned Vulcan was another whole can of worms. He doubted they'd ever see eye-to-eye on anything. The Captain might rely on the Vulcan's judgment, untainted as it were by emotion or passion, even have a convoluted fondness for him, but the austere Science Officer still gave McCoy the willies. He didn't entirely trust anyone who never cracked a smile, who never let their hair down; who could process something without really _feeling_ what it was all about. Draining his glass, he got to his feet and headed for his quarters. He knew he needed rest, but already understood that sleep would offer no escape tonight. He sighed heavily. If the events of today were just an inkling of what was in store for them, it was going to be a long five years…

oooOOOooo

"I can't let you do it." The eyes that met his were stubborn, resolved. He could tell by the set of the man's jaw, the tilt of his head that the other had made his decision already.

He softened his tone, brushing the gold forearm with concerned fingers, grasping for something, anything to convince him not to go through with this. "Let me rephrase that – please don't do this, Kevin." He searched his friend's face, truly afraid that there was nothing more he could do, nothing more he could say, which would set this right.

The fierce brown eyes looked away, something between a snort and a groan escaping through tightly compressed lips.

He flushed as he remembered how the disease had affected him, what he'd done. He'd be catching flack about that in some form or another for weeks to come. Somehow he'd manage to get through it. Now all he had to do was convince the other to do the same.

He tried again. "It wasn't your fault – we all did things today we aren't proud of."

A definite snort of derision this time. "Yeah? Well maybe we did, but I was the only one who single-handedly almost caused this ship to burn up in the atmosphere." The eyes were now haunted. "I came this close to killing everyone aboard," he lamented, holding up his hand, mere millimeters separating his thumb and forefinger. "How can the Captain ever trust me again?"

Well, that was a start; at least the man sitting opposite him was talking now. He seized on the opportunity. "He won't, doesn't hold that against you – he knows it wasn't your fault." Just this side of pleading.

"That's not the point, damn it!" A palm was slapped on the table in front of them, coffee sloshing over the edge of the cups standing there to settle in cooling, brown puddles on the smooth tabletop. "I can't stay here if my Commanding Officer has lost all confidence in me." The anger melted away, to be replaced with grim resignation. "A transfer is the only option open to me if I still want to be able to pursue this as my career." A pause. "And I do. It's all I have left."

At last. Something he could work with. "You know, I would've expected more from you; would've thought you had more faith in the Captain than to believe he'd hold this against you."

"Aren't you listening? I almost destroyed his ship! What captain can ever forgive that?" Self-recrimination swimming in the brown eyes, sweat beading on the upper lip.

Softly. "Ours."

A slight crack in the façade of defiance. A distinct softening of the boyish features as that notion was considered, pondered…and then summarily dismissed.

"I know I never could, Hikaru. I'm going to put in a request for a transfer, and nothing you say or do can stop me." Forceful; determined.

"Y'know Kev, that may be true, but what I do about it doesn't really matter. All that matters is what the Captain does about it." He let the words sink in, watched the young navigator visibly flinch as he was slapped by the unavoidable accuracy of that statement. "Go ahead – ask for a transfer if you think that's best. Bottom line is, Captain Kirk won't let you do it, either."

oooOOOooo

Kneeling before his asenoi, fingers steepled together, he found that achieving the higher levels of meditation this evening was proving most elusive. He'd suspected that would be the case, and did not allow it to affect him. However, he couldn't make the same claim about the events of today.

In love with him, she'd said. Why? What could she possibly see in him? How could she even begin to imagine he had anything to offer her? She'd been so sure he wouldn't hurt her. There was some truth to that statement – he'd never do anything to harm her physically – but he knew without question she'd be suffering emotional damage from their tension-filled altercation of today. He wanted to apologize; to assure her that it wasn't meant as a rejection, a dismissal of her as a person, it's just how he was, how things were. She didn't know about T'Pring – he hadn't told a soul – but in the end that wasn't the crux of the problem. In actuality he just didn't know how, didn't know the proper words to say, the right things to do, to put her at ease. He was unsure if trying to discuss their emotionally-charged exchange would make the situation better or worse between them; if avoiding her altogether for the next few weeks would somehow lessen the impact of what each of them had said, had done. Regardless of what he did (or didn't do), they were bound to be uncomfortable around each other for some time to come. A most unsatisfactory position no matter how one viewed it.

But that paled in comparison to what he'd done to Jim today. Essentially told the Captain he found their friendship intolerable, and then sent him sprawling with a well-placed backhand when the man had tried desperately to snap him out of his funk. For the first time since he was a young child, he had let his anger get the best of him, stung by Kirk's words, and his Captain's seeming indifference to being made privy to Spock's innermost, carefully guarded fears and regrets.

His crime had been twofold. He'd inflicted not only emotional pain on his Captain, but physical pain as well. It didn't matter that Kirk had struck him first, several times, in fact; his actions were inexcusable. It was seeing that trickle of red, human blood oozing from the corner of Jim's mouth and knowing he was responsible for it that had freed him at last from the virus' grip.

With mounting dread he recognized all too well the emotion that had currently taken up residence in his gut. He'd spent the better part of his life trying to banish guilt in one form or another – guilt that he wasn't Vulcan enough for his father; guilt that he wasn't Human enough for his mother, and guilt that he still wasn't man enough to simply be himself, without being concerned about how others perceived him.

Oh, he'd become quite adept at fooling those around him. For all intents and purposes he was Vulcan – the only face he showed to the outside world – but no one truly understood his daily struggle with both sides of his personality. There was a Human side of him, tightly controlled and thoroughly suppressed, constantly rattling the bars of its cage, screaming to be let out, to be granted even a small measure of expression. While up to now he had permitted no hint of this internal struggle to show, had done his utmost to hide it even from himself, it had been placed prominently on display today, his best efforts at control unable to stem the emotional tide the virus had unleashed. He'd yelled, wept, felt anger, sadness, remorse – a flood of emotions he thought he had long since relegated to the deep recesses of his mind, hidden away, never to surface again. But now it was out in the open. He'd said things, admitted things to Jim today that he never would have done otherwise. Would that somehow change his Captain's opinion of him? Had he inadvertently damaged this burgeoning friendship beyond its ability to be repaired?

During Kirk's first few weeks in the center seat, Spock had been alarmed at how different his command style was from that of Captain Pike. Pike had been calm, methodical, deeply concerned for and yet emotionally detached from his crew, exhibiting at times an almost Vulcan restraint in his approach to the job. Kirk, as it turned out, was his complete antithesis: brash, impulsive, a hands-on, natural-born leader who wore his care and concern for his ship and crew like a badge of honor for all to see. And much to Spock's surprise, this management style earned him not only the respect of those serving under him, but a deep, abiding affection and unwavering loyalty as well. After seeing first-hand the tornado of charm, activity and charisma that was Jim Kirk, Spock had been certain he would not be able to weather the storm. They were just too different. A request for a transfer a few months down the line would be the best way to remedy what at first blush had appeared to be an untenable situation.

And yet, in spite of his initial reticence he found himself inexplicably drawn to the man during that transitional phase, hopelessly sucked into the vortex of that inescapable magnetic personality, uncharacteristically pleased by his new captain's subtle, understated gestures of friendship. They were two diametrically opposed personalities, and initially he could not fathom what Kirk saw in him. Was it merely an attempt by his new CO to establish a good working relationship between them? He didn't think so. The time they spent in each other's company felt genuine, not forced or contrived, and much as he strove for it to be otherwise, he found himself to be responsive, willing, eager to have more than a professional relationship with this most unique of men. For the first time in his life he actually enjoyed, welcomed the presence of another into his private world – something which he had most assuredly destroyed today.

The logical side of his brain argued that Kirk would understand – even at this early stage in their friendship, Kirk understood him better than anyone else in the galaxy – but nonetheless even this most accepting of humans was bound to have a threshold. And Spock was convinced he'd crossed it during those few irretrievable moments in the Briefing Room.

Kaiidth. What was done was done. He could do nothing about the past, therefore to dwell on it was illogical and counter-productive. He needed to focus on what was to come. At least he'd have some control over that, and could hopefully right some of the wrongs he'd committed today, seal the wounds he'd unwittingly inflicted on two very different people, for two very different reasons.

He needed to think, clear his head, and for whatever reason that was proving impossible to do here. Climbing to his feet he headed for the door to his quarters.

oooOOOooo

He was lying on his bunk, still in uniform, not even attempting to sleep. Today, his tenure as Starfleet's youngest captain had almost ended before it had a chance to begin. Four hundred and thirty people had almost died today – lives for which he was ultimately responsible, deaths that would have been on his hands, regardless of the fact that he wouldn't have been around to suffer the consequences.

Despite the pounding headache and queasy stomach these thoughts had produced, he felt his chest swell with pride. As a captain, he had learned a valuable lesson today. His people were professionals, conducted themselves as such, and could be counted on not to crack under pressure. Faced with an impossible situation, they had met and conquered the challenge set before them, gone well beyond what was expected of them, his First Officer and Chief Engineer especially. He planned on recommending both for a commendation. But everyone who had remained uninfected had done what was necessary to ensure their continued survival, from the Sickbay and Lab staffs who had isolated the virus and produced an effective vaccine, to Yeoman Rand who had manned the helm even though it was not within her area of expertise, to Lieutenant Uhura, who somehow managed to keep communications up and running in spite of Riley's antics.

Riley. That was another matter altogether. The young navigator was sure to be upset with himself, distraught by what he had almost done. Kirk knew if the tables had been turned, and he had almost destroyed his ship as a newly-minted lieutenant, it would have been almost impossible to face. But in this case, it wasn't Riley's fault. It's not like he hadn't been able to handle the situation, or had committed mutiny. He couldn't be held accountable for succumbing to the effects of the disease any more than Sulu, or Mr. Leslie, or he himself could. He made a mental note to speak with the young man before shift tomorrow, reassure him that in spite of what had happened Kirk certainly didn't think any less of him, and still felt the Lieutenant was an asset to this crew.

Riley had fancied himself the Captain. So what? That wasn't a crime. If it were, then it was something he himself had been guilty of ever since graduating from the Academy. A lifelong aspiration he'd realized through hard work, dedication, and an unwavering belief in his ability to achieve this goal he had set for himself. Quite the contrary, it actually showed the depth of Riley's conviction, his commitment to someday attaining his dream. He couldn't fault the man for that, not and be able to look himself in the mirror.

And he had to admit he'd had a soft spot for the young Irishman ever since the incident on Tarsus IV. The then plucky four-year-old had witnessed the murder of his entire family, an event that had left him lost, frightened, shaken to the core to be sure, and yet the wide-eyed toddler had somehow grasped the severity of their predicament. He hadn't cried, whined or complained about the lack of food or decent shelter, but followed the instructions of his peers to the letter. His fear had only manifested at night, when he'd taken turns sleeping in the arms of his fellow survivors.

Over the years, Kirk had watched Riley's progress in Starfleet from afar, much as an older brother silently watches over his younger siblings, protecting them from the shadows, all the while making sure they were unaware that it was he who was keeping them safe. When he'd been given the _Enterprise_, he'd asked for the young man by name to serve as part of his crew, his only stipulation being that Riley not be informed of the request. He still stood by that decision.

But there were other issues he'd been confronted with during the height of the crisis, issues that in many ways were more difficult to deal with and process than the professional ones had been. The virus had revealed some unsettling truths about himself as well. Was he really so focused on his ship that it was the only thing that mattered to him, the most important thing in his life? He cringed as he remembered his heated declaration: _I'll never lose you, never!_ Surely if it came right down to it he'd sacrifice her for his family, his closest friends, to preserve the lives of his crew? They must mean more to him than she, right?

But he'd chosen her over Gary; had been prepared to strand his friend on a desolate, uninhabited world but had wound up killing him instead, all in an effort to keep her, and his crew safe from the creature Gary had become. Some friend…

Friends. The very word made his stomach clench involuntarily. When he'd first taken command, his new First Officer had been a closed book to him, watching him out of dark, unfathomable eyes, the Vulcan's face never betraying his inner thoughts regarding his new Captain. But Kirk had suspected he was being weighed, measured, and the idea that he could be found wanting in the Vulcan's eyes had been most intimidating. He'd always done things his way, skirting the edges of military discipline and decorum, actively seeking the approval of none but managing to win the respect of many, but to somehow not meet the expectations of that reserved, supremely dignified figure, the epitome of calm self-assuredness, left him feeling inadequate, somewhat out of sorts. To his great surprise that need to garner the Vulcan's favor mattered much more than he ever believed it could. He didn't know when it had happened, but somewhere along the line that attempt to win Spock's approval had turned into a desire to win the man's friendship as well.

At first he had done his best to keep his distance, respect what little he knew about Vulcan privacy and customs, but soon he found himself curiously drawn to the man. Why, he couldn't imagine – they were complete opposites in every area of their lives – and yet, somehow complemented each other. He'd been totally shocked yet pleasantly surprised when Spock seemed receptive to his hesitant overtures at friendship. He had willed himself to go slow, readily understanding that the Vulcan might feel obligated to indulge him out of respect, a sense of duty, but soon came to realize that Spock enjoyed his company as well.

Or so he had thought.

Ashamed, his First had said. In the heat of the moment, with the crisis upon them, he hadn't allowed himself to think about the comment, focusing instead on the immediate threat, but after the danger had passed, he found the words strangely disquieting.

Had he somehow misread Spock? Pushed him into a relationship he either didn't want or couldn't handle? _No_, he decided firmly. He hadn't mistaken the warmth or flashes of friendship the Vulcan allowed to show in his eyes – eyes that Kirk had become quite adept at reading during the brief time they had served together – or the quiet camaraderie the two of them had shared over meals, chess, or workouts in the gym over the course of the last few months. It went well beyond the professional relationship between a Captain and his Executive Officer. In his own, unique Spockian way, the Vulcan had opened up to him, allowed Kirk to see a side of himself that Spock rarely, if ever, showed to others.

And what of Spock's question on the Bridge: _Are you all right, Jim?_ A double-edged sword to be certain. Was it only with regard to the physical pummeling he'd endured at the hands of his First, or was Spock concerned that his words had injured Kirk as well? That seeing his Captain suffering from the effects of the virus, too had caused Spock undue distress?

He firmly believed it was a combination of all three, but, like Riley, Spock would be unable to forgive himself for his words, or actions, afraid that Kirk would somehow misconstrue them to mean more than they did.

_It's not me he's ashamed of, but how others might view him because of our friendship._ He had had his first, eye-opening look at this internal conflict today as Spock had briefly explained his childhood, his respect for the customs of his father's people, his inability to relate to his mother in the way she had wanted, expected of him. This had only served to raise his opinion of Spock, had given him a newfound appreciation for the Vulcan's daily struggle with his dual nature. Armed with this new insight into his First he resolved not to take that which he had not been meant to hear personally. _I should feel privileged that he even acknowledges his friendship for me. I need to make sure he knows this, and that I appreciate it. I knew this wouldn't be easy, for either of us._

A quick glance at his chronometer told him that even though the hour was late, Spock wouldn't be asleep yet, either. He must speak to his First now, before the Vulcan had any more time to mull over the events of today and retreat further into himself. He exited his cabin, somehow knowing that Spock wasn't in his own quarters, but confident he knew where to find the man.

oooOOOooo

As he entered the darkened Observation Deck, he was not surprised to see a tall, lean figure silhouetted against the backdrop of the stars. He had expected his First to be here. He cleared his throat, all the while knowing it was unnecessary. The average Vulcan's hearing was far superior to that of Humans. Spock had been aware he was no longer alone from the moment the servos had fired to life, opening the doors to admit him. He had a strong suspicion that Spock already knew precisely who it was who was so blatantly invading his privacy, but would be far too polite to dismiss him outright, or demand to be left alone.

He sidled up to his First, hands behind his back, all the words that had run through his head on the way here swiftly evaporating the moment he'd stepped through the doors, total gibberish now, as if they were suddenly in Greek, or Romulan. He chose to play it safe instead.

"Mr. Spock."

"Captain."

Silence ensued; not easy or uncomfortable. It just was.

"Helluva day."

"To put it mildly, sir."

The flow of conversation halted again, the moment now becoming tense as he could sense the shame radiating from the Vulcan. He'd seen a side of Spock today that no one was ever meant to see. And he would bet that not a soul, not even Spock's mother, had glimpsed the depths of the man's inner torment to this degree. A sideways look at the Vulcan confirmed the anguish, the conflict hiding in those pinched features.

This was not gonna work. He'd been wrong to come here. Spock wasn't ready to discuss this – hell, he may never be. Perhaps the best course of action would simply be to say nothing, rather than compound Spock's palpable discomfiture. Reluctantly, Kirk decided to give the man some space. He turned and headed for the door. "I should go. You were here first, after all. I'll see you on the Bridge in the morning, Mr. Spock," he called over his shoulder. He was almost to the exit when a soft voice brought him up short.

"Captain." A beat. "Jim." Excruciatingly plaintive.

He stopped, didn't turn around.

"I wish to apologize for my comments earlier. Obviously I was not myself."

Kirk closed his eyes briefly, lifting his head, chin angled toward the ceiling; took a deep, cleansing breath. He slowly pivoted to meet the voice that had spoken. His First had not moved, still facing the huge, rectangular porthole, shoulders hunched slightly, hands balled into fists at his side, staring into the black void beyond.

"I know." The Captain moved to stand beside the still figure once again, his gaze trained on the flickering starlight as well. "I didn't take it to heart, Spock – I realize it was the virus talking. We all have our personal demons to deal with." He tried to let the acceptance and understanding he was feeling show in his voice, his demeanor, willing Spock to hear it, to see it.

But the Vulcan was still adrift in a sea of self-reproach. "That may be true, but it did not give me the right to subject you to mine. My inability to deal with our friendship is in no way your fault." Finally, a head turned to him, eyes swirling with remorse, bitter regret, met his in the dim light. "In no way do I hold you responsible." The thin shoulders were suddenly drawn tight, the spine stiffening, hands now clasped firmly behind the Vulcan's back. "Sir." Spock's gaze finally came to rest on the deck below their feet.

"And it's a good thing, too." Kirk couldn't stop the wry, affectionate smile that appeared on his face, although his voice remained composed, empathetic. "I've done my share of putting my foot in my mouth wherever you're concerned over the past few months, but I'm sure as hell not gonna take the blame for this." His light, teasing tone finally produced the desired effect. Spock's look shifted from one of culpability to confusion, an eyebrow raised slowly, before the barest perceptible release of breath let Kirk know unequivocally his gentle sarcasm had been understood. His First visibly relaxed, the dark eyes relieved at last, grateful as they met his.

"I know our friendship can be difficult for you at times, but I still believe it's important to you." Kirk allowed his expression to convey that which couldn't, mustn't be voiced.

"You are correct."

It seemed that was all the affirmation Spock was willing or able to offer, but he could live with that. Relief flooded him.

They would survive this.

Once again words failed them, but this silence was distinctly different – no traces of the earlier awkwardness and uncertainty between them present. This one felt right, and true, and not the least bit uncomfortable. It would take some time, but the wounds would heal now, for both of them.

In spite of this, Kirk sensed that there was something else, something bigger, still causing distress for his friend. All along he'd suspected there was more to this than Spock's admitted shame over their friendship, or misgivings about his past. That in and of itself couldn't account for the totally broken man Kirk had stumbled across in the Briefing Room. He decided on a risky gamble.

"You know Spock, lots of things came out in the open today that others weren't meant to see, or hear. The next few days are going to be tough for all of us." Again silence, as the Vulcan shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Kirk kept his gaze averted, watching instead the stars as they danced by the viewing port. "I don't mean to pry, but I just thought if something else happened, something you're unfamiliar with – perhaps an emotion or sentiment you don't fully grasp – maybe I can help you to understand."

He heard a small sigh, saw the narrow shoulders slump once again, and knew he was on the right track. Spock seated himself on one of the low couches and Kirk quickly followed suit, still not looking at his friend, trying to afford the Vulcan the time necessary to collect his thoughts. It was of the utmost importance that he tread lightly here if he wanted his First to confide in him.

Spock began speaking in a low voice. "When I arrived in Sickbay it was deserted save for Nurse Chapel. When I inquired as to the Doctor's whereabouts she seemed … distracted, unfocused, completely out of touch with her surroundings. As I was leaving she grasped my hand and declared her love for me." He paused briefly, dropping his gaze to his lap. "I am at a loss to understand her reasoning for such a declaration." Eyes that now turned to him were wide, fraught with disbelief and deep, abiding sorrow.

He couldn't help but chuckle, hoping the Vulcan wouldn't misinterpret his reaction. "Don't worry, Spock, you're not alone. Despite millions of years of evolution, there's not a man alive on Earth who fully understands the Human female mind." Regrettably Kirk's attempt at levity totally escaped his First's grasp.

"Why would she feel this way, Jim? I am quite certain I have done nothing to indicate that I would welcome such a sentiment, or that her feelings are reciprocated in any way."

"That's the great mystery. Who can say why, or how, humans fall in love?"

"But surely she must realize I cannot, do not, return these feelings?"

"I'm sure she's well aware of that now Spock, but at the time, with the virus acting on her, I don't think it mattered. The only thing that was important was to make sure you knew how she felt." He paused. How to make the Vulcan understand? "It's going to be rough on her for a while – no human ever wants to admit to feelings of love that are unrequited."

"Then how would you suggest I handle the situation?" The question was barely audible, his First's eyes trained on his hands, clasped tightly in his lap.

An awkward pause. Spock, asking him for advice on women? If the moment weren't so surreal it'd be laughable.

He cleared his throat nervously. "Give her some space. She'll clearly be embarrassed, so let her set the tone of how you two interact with one another for the time being. If she approaches you and wants to discuss the matter, be receptive to that. If not, be respectful of that as well. Don't force the issue."

The slightest shake of the dark head let Kirk know his suggestion had been taken under consideration. Well, that was a start, at least.

His First's next question caught Kirk completely off guard.

"I trust I did not injure you too severely when I struck you earlier?" Again the voice soft, contrite, eyes unable, or unwilling to meet his.

Kirk rubbed his jaw absently. "I'll admit it's a little sore, but I've had worse." _But not by much_, he added silently.

"Then perhaps you should allow Doctor McCoy to examine you to ensure that you did not sustain any permanent damage." Self-condemnation flaring again for an instant.

"Honestly, it's not that bad. And besides, I really don't want to have to explain to McCoy just how I got this injury." He shot Spock a conspiratorial look.

The hooded eyes snapped to his, appreciation warring with protectiveness.

"It's okay Spock, really. After all, I did hit you first." No response. "I said and did some things today I'm not proud of either. What do you say we put it behind us, and chalk it up to experience?"

"A most logical suggestion, Captain."

"It's just one of many hurdles we'll have to overcome over the next five years, I'm sure." He switched gears, hoping to get things back on an even keel. "C'mon, Spock, how about a game of chess since neither of us seems to be able to sleep. We have two and a half days left to live over again – what do you say we put the time to good use?" The boyish, mischievous grin he was known for appeared out of the blue.

"Your place or mine?" came the quick-fire response, an eyebrow springing to life, laughter playing about the corners of Spock's mouth as well.

That answer spoke volumes as they once again settled into the normal, the comfortable, the routine, the banter now flowing easily between them. They had come through this relatively unscathed, at least regarding their relationship to one another. Now it was Kirk's turn to let out a sigh of relief.

"Mine. That way when I win I can toast my victory; or drown my sorrows as the case may be." The grin widened. "I think I need something stronger than Tarkelian Tea tonight, anyway."

"As you wish, sir," Spock replied, falling into step behind Kirk's right shoulder as the two of them started for the door.

A sense of equanimity, of business as usual, settled over Kirk. It was good to know that, in spite of everything that had happened today, the Vulcan still had his back.


End file.
